I Have My Father's Hands

I have my father's hands
and the warm veins that flow through them.
The hands that held me as a babe
his own in his own in his own.

In sun and rain they gripped petal and leaf,
I twiddled my thumbs as the fertility bloomed.
Wind, a factor, as seeds spread here and there.
Bees, a helper, as youngens popped up everywhere.
Nails, clipped and worn and bloody
Washed, as on my toes I tipped and watched.
Lessons, a trial, and handed down day to day.
Life, attracted, and given a chance to play.

Hands that held my seeds, my own
when far and wide his seeds were blown.
Shaken and fraught with years of weather
they blessed the seeds I grow at home.